


Candle Dance

by ConsultingOtter (FourCornersHolmes)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Army Doctor John Watson, BAMF John Watson, F/F, F/M, Female John Watson, Meddling is NOT welcome, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft's Meddling, Olivia is BAMF, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Russian characters, September 11 Attacks, She's also Russian, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Mess, letter-writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 10:31:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13809342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/ConsultingOtter
Summary: This is a story about a fire fighter with no real future, who answers the call to duty and goes where they send her. Along the way, she meets a couple of familiar faces and makes friends of them. There are letters written, grievances aired and shared, and annoying, pompous older brothers to contend with. Her misadventures take her from metropolitan Manhattan to the deserts of the Middle East, and from the unforgiving deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan to the metropolis of London.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Candle Dance came to life from the following prompt: "The story is about a fire fighter. It starts in a church. The story begins with someone getting drunk." I can't remember where I got the prompt, I think it was over on Seventh Sanctum a LONG time ago, but this is where following the prompt took me. I hope it's not absolute garbage.

* * *

Olivia Rozanov entered the quiet, dark church and looked around quickly. As she had expected, the pews were mostly empty at this time of day. It was between scheduled masses, so there weren’t too many people still in the sanctuary. A few early comers for the next mass, but it wasn’t crowded like it would be in about fifteen minutes. She stopped at one of the four stations set aside for lighting candles and private prayer, dropped two quarters into the offering-box, and lit two of the small red votive candles tucked into their little slots. Olivia looked up to meet the eternally-benevolent face of the Blessed Virgin Mary and caught herself making a face at the statue. Shrugging, she turned away and slipped into an empty pew, content to sit and reflect. Her head was beginning to ache, not that she was too surprised.

 

She reflected on where she had been before coming to church, and for a moment felt a niggle of shame before remembering how the priests adored reminding the congregation that Jesus Christ had lived and socialized with all sorts of people: tax-collectors, prostitutes, criminals, fishermen, and even those who had stumbled off the path of righteousness. Olivia snorted quietly, but not quietly enough if the old lady three rows up turned around to give her a dirty look. She’d stumbled off the path alright, and still hadn’t managed to pick herself up and get her feet back under her. Not an hour before, she’d been sitting in a smoky, crowded bar frequented by cops, firefighters, and EMTs. Already she’d had enough to drink that one of her cop buddies had actually called a cab for her and told her to go home and sleep it off, it wasn’t safe for her to drive. As she reflected on her past behavior and her downhill slide into depression and substance abuse, she was aware of someone standing next to her. Thinking one of her buddies had stopped by to check on her, if any of them knew where she was, she raised her head.

“What?” Olivia really didn’t mean for it to come out that way, to sound so mean, but there it was.

“Do you want to talk about it, Olivia?” the man she’d snapped at didn’t seem fazed at all, being talked to like that by a half-drunk firefighter with more issues than a yearly subscription of Sports Illustrated.

“What is there to talk about? You know all of my dirty secrets!” she muttered even as the patient priest sat down next to her.

“You haven’t come to mass in a while, I was wondering if you were okay.” Father Mark had known Olivia since she had been a child, and one of the few priests who hadn’t been shipped out to other parishes by the state bishopric or his religious order. Well, he _had_ , but he always seemed to come back. Olivia groaned and buried her head in her arms.

“You know I’m not okay, Father Mark.” She rubbed her forehead, “I haven’t been okay for months. You know why I don’t come to church anymore.”

Olivia, there was nothing you could have done, nothing you could have done to change the way things happened that day. Your loss is our loss, but I am grateful that you were not among those we had to list as deceased that day, or the days after.” Father Mark put one hand on her shoulder, “Have you tried to get help?”

“Yes.” She rested her head on her arms and looked at Father Mark, “I’ve tried, but no one seems interested in my problems. It’s like, I don’t matter as much as everyone else does. I have to live with the deaths of a thousand plus people every single fucking day, and I’m not allowed to ask for help! It’s so frustrating!” Olivia turned and sat up straight, looking at the statue of Jesus Christ on the crucifix at the front of the church, wondering why she felt so…isolated. Standing witness to, and surviving, the greatest catastrophe on U.S. soil since Pearl Harbor had left Olivia feeling isolated and without direction. Everything she’d ever been told, everything she’d ever learned, was all a lie. And what made it worse was her status as a Reservist in the Army.

“Liv?” Father Mark squeezed her shoulder, “Try talking to God for a change. The vigil mass and rosary is next, you can stay if you want.”

“Okay.” Olivia tried to smile, but she couldn’t. Father Mark gave her that familiar, comforting smile, and pressed something into her hand as he got up and left. Olivia uncurled her fingers and looked to see what the priest had left with her. It was his rosary, which she had often played with as a child, more to keep herself occupied during mass than because she knew what to do with it. She couldn’t help smiling and quietly dropped to her knees on the kneeler, making the sign of the cross as she genuflected. The church began to fill as people began to show up for mass, but Olivia was already praying the rosary. She got a few odd looks for the simple fact that she did not recite it in English, but chose to do so in Russian. Following the Sign of the Cross and the Our Father, Olivia recited ten Hail Mary’s. Olivia finished the Joyful Mysteries and moved on to the Light Mysteries, moving on until she had finished the entire Rosary. Once she had finished one Rosary, she started another one. It was the first time Olivia had spent any time in church since September 11th, and halfway through her third Rosary, she broke down in tears. She was quiet with her tears, of course, but she still got some looks from other congregants. Olivia didn’t care.

-&-

When Father Mark invited the congregation to the altar for a brief communion, Olivia was among those who went up. But, unlike the others, she did not leave again. Once she had taken her share, Father Mark pressed the wafer into her hand as he kissed her on the forehead but did not let her take the wine, she moved out of the way and went down on her knees on the steps to the altar. With Father Mark’s rosary tangled in her hands, she stayed there through the remainder of the vigil and through the following Rosary Mass. She kept her head down, afraid to look at the crucifix, kneeling at the altar like a Medieval repentant as she prayed in her grandmother’s Russian through her tears.

 

When the services ended, she was aware of several congregants coming up behind her as they left, touching her on the shoulder. Some of them spoke to her, thanking her, others said nothing. Father Mark went about his business closing down the church while she stayed in place, only coming to fetch her when he had to lock the doors.

“Come on, Liv. Up you go.” He helped her stand, tucking the rosary into her pocket, “Feel better?”

“My head hurts, but my heart doesn’t. Not as much.”

“Figured that might be the case.” He smiled and put an arm around her shoulders, guiding her out of the church. “Let’s see about getting you safe, yeah?”

“Whatever that means.” She rubbed her forehead and blew out a slow breath, “Ugh.”

“Corporal Rozanov?” That salutation alone was enough to get her attention, and she didn’t miss the way Father Mark’s hand tightened on her shoulder. She looked up and froze. Parked at the curb was a black sedan, marked on the doors with a familiar insignia.

“Oh no.”

“You’re up?” Father Mark whispered. Olivia nodded and stepped away from him, hand outstretched to take the file the regular was holding out. She marked him a Second Lieutenant.

“Everything is in your file, ma’am. You leave tonight. Next plane out leaves in two hours. Be there.”

“Where am I going?” She flipped through the file to look for her station. Oh great. They were sending her to Iraq. Right in the heart of the action. Great. Closing her file, she looked at the lieutenant and traded salutes with him. She would be on that plane if it was the last thing she ever did. Once the car was gone, she looked at Father Mark, who took the rosary out of her pocket and disappeared into the church for a minute. When he came back, he tucked a cloth pouch into her pocket.

“I washed it in holy water for you. Keep that on you at all times.”

“Thank you.” She leaned her head back and looked up at the sky, “Well, the next night-sky I see is going to be a hell of a lot different from this one.”

“Where are you going?”

“Says Iraq, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they send me to Afghanistan.”

“Oh, Liv.” He squeezed her shoulder, “Come on, I’ll take you home so you can get your things together and I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“Thanks again, Father Mark.” She followed him to his car for a quiet drive back to her tiny apartment. She grabbed her bags, took a shower, changed into a clean reporting uniform, and ran out the door. The drive out to the airport was just as quiet, and Father Mark went as far as the TSA checkpoint with her. Her bags had been taken already, they would be loaded after being weighed, it was her job to get to the gate before the plane left. At the checkpoint, she said goodbye to Father Mark.

“You be safe out there, Liv, wherever they end up sending you. Write to me, okay?”

“I will, Father Mark.” She hugged him tightly, “I promise. Pray for me, please?”

“Don’t you worry a thing about that, my dear. You’re at the top of my to-do list. Safe travels, let me know when you’re settled.” He kissed her on the cheek, “I’ll see you in a few months.”

“Alright. Oh, god, this isn’t what I thought I’d be doing.”

“You knew what you were getting into. Chin up, shoulders back, be strong.” He tapped her under the chin with a wry smile, and sent her on her way with a last shoulder-squeeze.

 -&-

Getting through security was a breeze and she joined a sizable group of soldiers at her gate. All going the same place for the same reason. She realized that she hadn’t eaten anything and groaned. She didn’t have any time to get food, of course. She sat on the floor, back to the window that looked out over the ramp, and closed her eyes. Liv wasn’t alone for very long, her company heralded by a rustling sound. Exhausted, and still a bit drunk, she didn’t move. It wasn’t until something touched her shoulder that she looked up.

“Here. You look like you need this.” An older gentleman, about her father’s age, stood in front of her, holding out a paper bag. It was food. He had several of them, she noticed. He was one of the Operation Rainbow operatives, a group of civilians and vets who took care of incoming and outgoing soldiers at airports, usually making sure they had food and a hug. She reached for the bag.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Where they sending you, then, kiddo?”

“Um. Iraq, I think.”

“Ooh. Mean bush, that is.” He smiled, “Been there. Don’t miss it, but I sure miss my guys. You be careful out there.” She looked him over and saw his hat. Desert Storm. Liv smiled back and opened her bag. French fries, a hamburger, and a soda. Perfect last meal.

“Thank you for your service, sir.”

“Thank you for _yours_ , young lady. And not just this one, either.” He smiled, “You’re a fire-fighter, ain’t you?”

“Used to be, until tonight.”

“Thought so! You were up in that mess back in September.”

“Yeah. Out of one mess and into another.”

“Make ‘em pay for it, lass.” He squeezed her shoulder, “Give ‘em what for and hell for that. Take it out of ‘em.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” She got to her feet and offered the veteran a salute. “Can’t promise much else, sir.”

“Your best is enough.” He offered her one hand, “Hamlin, Rocky Hamlin. Clocked out of there at Major.”

“Olivia Rozanov.”

“Oh, that’s where I know you from! You’re Lucas Rozanov’s girl! Oh, he talked about you _all_ the time!”

“You knew my dad?” Olivia tilted her head. Her father had been in the Army, her inspiration to follow, until his death in 1992 in Kuwait.

“Oh, sure I did! He was one of my best friends.” Hamlin’s smile was sad as he hugged her, “I knew you’d gone after him, didn’t think I’d live to see the day you went out into the field like this. You’re a strong girl, Liv Rozanov. You go out there and make your old man proud, hear me? Won’t be too hard, you’ve been good at it since you could walk. Damn shame he didn’t live long enough to see you do it, but I saw it for him.”

“I’ll try to make you and Papa proud, Major Hamlin.”

“I’ll write to you in a few weeks, then. I know exactly where and how to find you, and God knows you could use some friends back here at home.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” Olivia needed all the friends she could get, most of her family was either not on speaking terms with her or dead. And she didn’t know much about the specifics of her father’s service in the Army, but anyone who knew him was good in her books. Hamlin moved on to take care of the other soldiers shipping out, and Olivia munched on her dinner. It was probably the last she would see of good old-fashioned American fast food for quite a while. When her flight was called, she boarded and found her seat. She ended up sleeping for most of the flight, which was fine.

 -&-

Iraq, when she got there, was a bit of awful. It was hot, dry, and hostile. But having come straight from the aftermath of 9/11, Olivia was more than happy to get her hands dirty. She was stationed in Camp Liberty, and stayed for a year after she kept asking for more time. As a reservist, she wasn’t obligated to serve regular time, but there wasn’t much in Manhattan for her to go home to. Her commanding officers were okay with her sticking around, they needed extra hands for the hospitals. She had come in with the 8th Medical Brigade, 3rd Medical Command (Deployment Support), serving as a medic, which bolstered her role in Manhattan as a fire-fighter and EMT.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia meets John Watson, who is nothing like she expected, and makes a friend. Later, she is introduced to the mysterious, unusual Sherlock Holmes by a letter that may not have been intended to reach her but it did.

* * *

 

After three tours, two in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, Olivia went into regular service from the Reserves. On one tour as a regular, this one putting her in Camp Bastion as part of a USMC deployment, she met another medic from England. Camp Bastion was primarily a stronghold of the British military, so she was sort of the odd man out when it came to being an American, never mind being a _woman_ , but for the most part she didn’t mind. The Brits had also given Olivia a nickname and started calling her “Yankee”, a friendly jab at her being an American, and from Manhattan.

 

She was in her tent on one slow afternoon when one of her soldiers popped in.

“Hey, Sarge!”

“What’s up, Jorge?” She looked up from reading, she’d gotten back an hour ago from a long shift at the hospital, “Emergency somewhere?”

“Nah! Not a medical emergency, anyway. A couple of handsome Brits just showed up!” Jorge Feliz wiggled his eyebrows, “You might want to come see!”

“Come on, Jorge, this place is crawling with Brits, all sizes, shapes, and colors. What’s so special about these?”

“Come on!”

“Ugh, you mad thing.” She rolled her eyes as her corporal dragged her from her cot and pulled her out of her tent, “Alright, Feliz, I’m coming.” Feliz ushered her across camp to the hospital, which wasn’t that far from her tent but still a healthy walk, and she caught sight of a couple of ambulances.

“Oh, Fel.”

“Not what it looks like, not that bad. We’ve seen worse.”

“That’s a fucking medical emergency, you idiot!” She broke into a sprint, “Get back to your station!”

“You got it, Sarge!” He giggled and went off back to wherever he’d come from. She would have to look into appropriate reprimand for this, after she figured out what was going on. Reaching the hospital, she sprinted past the jeeps, which were off-loading their patients into the hands of waiting medical teams.

“Who’s in charge here?” She yelled at one poor sod, a Specialist by his badges.

“Up there, ma’am.” He pointed as she shot past, “Watson!”

“Thanks!” She huffed. At the head of the caravan, she swung around the last ambulance and nearly collided with someone coming from the other direction. She skidded, throwing sand and gravel, and caught herself against the side of the ambulance.

“Jesus, don’t do that! Pop out of the ground like a fucking prairie dog!” Whoever she’d almost plowed over didn’t seem to mind too much and she looked up, hating that the sun was behind them so she couldn’t see their face.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I heard you coming, thought you’d be up on the other side of it. My fault.” A hand appeared, “You alright, then?”

“Oh, Feliz is a dead man.” She growled, taking the offered hand. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Olivia Rozanov, pretty sure it’s my fault.” _And my pleasure. Hello, gorgeous._ She got a good look at the British officer and caught her breath. Watson was about average height for their gender, five-foot-seven, but that was pretty much the  _only_ thing about her that was. Build was stocky but trim, she was in excellent shape due to the nature of their jobs, with hands broad and sure, bearing calluses most medics didn't have, skin tan from numerous deployments in hot climates like this, it was unfairly even from what she could see, hair kept short and bleached almost white from the constant exposure to the high-altitude sun. All of this data was disseminated and filed away in seconds. 

“John Watson. My fault much as yours, love. You any good?”

“Good enough. You need a hand?”

“Could use an extra pair.” Watson grinned, and she felt her knees go weak. Fuck. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen plenty of handsome targets around base, not even a lack of handsome Brits, but…oh, Watson. John…Watson. Hmm. She followed Watson into the hospital and they scrubbed in, side-by-side. She was used to working alongside British surgeons, but she didn’t remember if she’d seen Watson before.

“So…” She coughed, “I know where you’re from, but…where?”

“London.” Watson smirked, “Got family in Brighton, not that I talk to ‘em much. You?”

“Uh, Manhattan. Same boat, more or less.” She shrugged, “Pretty sure I haven’t seen you before, I’m not _that_ bad with faces.”

“Nah, we’ve never had a thing to do with each other before, you do your job and I do mine, never had a reason to mix.” Watson looked at her with a familiar gaze, “Not that I mind, shame we didn’t meet earlier.”

“Oh, you too?” Olivia murmured. “I thought it was just me.”

“Not just you.” Watson’s smile was best termed sweetly predatory. Olivia couldn’t help blushing and coughed.

“So. Is…John short for something?”

“Johanna.”

“John’s a better fit, I think.” She made a face, “Don’t know why.”

“You and me both. Come on, broken soldiers to patch up and all that mess.” That touch was not just professional. Or friendly. She was going to kill Feliz, after she worked out the mysteries of John Watson. Olivia proudly considered herself pretty heterosexual, fairly cis-female, had never once considered otherwise. One near-collision at a caravan with a handsome British medic and she was reconsidering? Why?

-&-

As they worked over the latest collection of unfortunates, Olivia kept part of her focus on Watson. The other woman was about her height, five-seven, stockier than Olivia, with short blonde hair and unusual eyes. Olivia couldn’t tell if they were brown or blue. Her skin was quite tan, she was no stranger to the desert climes of the Middle East. And her smile was distracting.

 

Olivia spent hours following Watson around, and ended up covering a range of conversation from politics to whether she preferred tea or coffee. They had many things in common, despite living on different sides of the Atlantic, preferring tea but amenable to coffee regardless; a background in the medical field: John as a doctor and Olivia as an EMT; a love of soccer (football to John) with a shared dislike for Manchester United – John was a fan of Chelsea and Arsenal while Olivia was more fond of Chelsea and a few of her homeland clubs, rooting for her hometown Metros and D.C. United. After they finished up in the hospital, Olivia headed back to her tent. It was quiet the rest of the day, she made a few more trips back to the hospital as needed, and saw more of John Watson. Not that either of them minded, of course.

 

-&-

After that first meeting, Olivia started noticing her British counterpart more. And missing her more when John was out in the field. They struck up a more-than-friendship of sorts, engaging in some careful, explicit flirting. Olivia was thrilled to discover her bisexuality, even if she didn’t know what to make of it right away. Trust a gorgeous British doctor to make her question her sexuality in the first place. John was a quiet bisexual, not quite out for a number of reasons, but that didn’t stop them from having fun together. Whenever they got a day off, and their time off lined up, they’d go out together and enjoy some time away from duty. After that first deployment, they kept in touch and took every tour they could get that took them back to Afghanistan, hoping to see each other again.

-&-

In 2006, Olivia received a letter from a civilian as part of a “Dear Soldier” letter-exchange. She was surprised when the return-address was from somewhere in London, England. Curious, and thinking maybe she’d gotten a letter meant for someone else, she tore open the envelope and extracted the letter within. It was short, written by hand, and she got the feeling the writer didn’t want to be talking to anyone.

**Somewhere Boring**

**Not London, England**

**21 May, 2006**

**Dear Soldier,**

**To be completely honest, I don’t care if this gets to anyone or if you write back, I’d rather maybe you didn’t. I’m only writing this letter because one of the therapists here suggested that we all write a letter to a soldier. Some of us were told to write two letters, so…I suppose I’m being forced to make this dull missive twice.**

**My name is Sherlock Holmes, and when I don’t live in this den of idiots, I live in a small flat kept by my brother. Not by my choice, of course. I would very much like to live in a place of my own, but since my finances are on hold, I can’t afford rent anywhere in London and I refuse to live with my parents. But until I can prove myself to my brother, whatever THAT means, I will be forced to live under my brother’s watch.**

**I suppose I might as well come clean about why I’m writing to you from a rehabilitation facility in Central London. I am an addict, in all the worst ways possible. I cannot function as normal, boring humans do, my brain processes too quickly and in an effort to be sane, I have fallen to drugs. Who wants to be friends with a drug addict? I’m too smart, too rude, and too unstable for friends. Please don’t write back to me, I don’t need the distraction. And I very much doubt you need or want it, either.**

**Yours Unreliably,**

**Sherlock Holmes**

**Resident**

**The Priory Hospital Roehampton**

**Priory Lane**

**Roehampton**

**London**

**SW15 5JJ**

 

 

It was the strangest letter Olivia had ever gotten, but she was intrigued. Who was Sherlock Holmes? What a name! And what kind of trouble had he or she gotten into that they were locked up in rehab? She thought of her cousin, who had died two years ago after nearly ten years addicted to cocaine. How many times they had tried rehab and how it never seemed to work. She folded the letter and picked up her notebook, flipping to a clean page and grabbing her pen. Tapping the pen against her chin, she thought on it for a minute and started to write. She was still writing when she heard a soft rustling outside her tent. Olivia looked up and smiled.

“Are you just going to stand out there until it gets dark, John?” She called quietly. A minute later, the flap was pushed aside and her friend ducked into her tent. Olivia took note of her expression, and the envelope that she clutched in one hand, “Oh, did you get a letter, too?”

“Who is it?”

“Hell if I know, but with a name like that, you know we won’t forget them.” She looked at what she’d written, “You have to wonder what they got into that they were put there by their brother.”

“You have to feel kind of sorry for them. I don’t think they’ve ever had a friend.”

“Didn’t sound like it, did it?” She signed her letter, folded it, and put it in the envelope she had addressed before she started the letter, “How old do you think they are?”

“Couldn’t say from the letter, but maybe younger than the two of us by a bit.”

“They have an interesting name, and I thought it sounded familiar. Couldn’t say why.” She sealed the envelope and tossed it aside. John picked it up and looked at it.

“You wrote back, didn’t you?”

“You didn’t?”

“Of course I did! Of fucking course I did!” John looked at her like she’d committed blasphemy. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why not?” She chuckled, “Put that down and come here, girl.” Olivia sat down on the small camp-bed and got comfortable. She hadn’t slept in three days, she was exhausted. John put the letters down and joined her on the almost-too-small bed. It was just a hair shy of too small, but they weren’t very large people to begin with so premium space was shared. John snuggled up against her back and they fell asleep like that. It wasn’t the first time, it wasn’t very likely to be the last. She spared a thought for the mysterious, troubled Sherlock Holmes. Whoever they were, she hoped that her letter would get back to them and prove that, somewhere in the world, there was someone who cared enough to write back on a “Dear Soldier” letter-exchange.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two letters were written and delivered to Camp Bastion, two letters have been written and delivered to The Priory Hospital. This is Sherlock's side of the arrangement. What does an asocial, possibly asexual, troubled genius do with two long-distance friends who seem to be far too understanding for anyone's good?

* * *

**The Priory Hospital Roehampton**

**Priory Lane**

**Roehampton**

**London**

**SW15 5JJ**

**June 3rd, 2006**

 

**Dear Sherlock Holmes,**

**I refrain from using the honorary “Mr.” or “Ms.” because I realize, perhaps belatedly, that I don’t KNOW if you are in fact male or female. Rest assured this means absolutely nothing to me and it will not stop me from pursuing whatever degree of friendship I get from exchanging letters with a Londoner like yourself. I know that you instructed in your first letter not to write back, but seeing as I don’t have any family of my own to write home to and fewer friends who aren’t already with me here in Afghanistan, I think you’ll forgive me for disobeying you.**

**My name, should you care for it, is Olivia Rozanov. I hail originally from Manhattan, New York, in the United States of America. I was a fire fighter and EMT there. I think they call them paramedics in England? Or is it the same over there? Either way, that’s what I did when I wasn’t running off for training with the USAR (that’s the United States Army Reserve, by the way). I left Manhattan in 2002 and spent a few years in the Reserves before I decided to go all the way and become a regular. I wanted to do something, and this was a good something to do. That was…two or three years ago? I don’t regret any of it. With no family at home, I’m more than happy to take deployments for people who do have loved ones who miss them. I have friends, but most of them are with me here in Afghanistan. Having someone to write home to, so to speak, would be nice.**

**As for your letter, it was a little troubling that you didn’t seem to think much of the circumstances that landed you in rehab. I lost a cousin to cocaine two years ago, I know how serious it can be. Please don’t ever believe that it’s the only way, or that you have something to prove. I don’t know what kind of family dynamic you grew up with, probably VERY different from mine, but I am concerned for your sake. What put you in rehab? Was it cocaine? Something else? None of my business, I’m a complete stranger, but I just want you to know that I’ve seen the absolute worst of humanity, so I very much doubt you can surprise me. Please feel free to write back to me, I’d love to hear from you again. Perhaps, if we undertake this bizarre thing called friendship, we can eventually exchange photographs with each other. I’d love to know what you look like.**

**Hopefully Yours,**

**Olivia A. Rozanov**

**Master Sergeant (MSG)(USAMEDCOM)**

**Camp Bastion**

**Lashkar Gah/Gereshk**

**Nahri Saraj District**

**Helmand Province**

**Afghanistan**

 

-&-

 

**The Priory Hospital Roehampton**

**Priory Lane**

**Roehampton**

**London**

**SW15 5JJ**

**3 June, 2006**

**Dear Sherlock Holmes,**

**I refrain from using the honorary “Mr.” or “Ms.” because I realize, perhaps belatedly, that I don’t KNOW if you are in fact male or female. Rest assured this means absolutely nothing to me and it will not stop me from pursuing whatever degree of friendship I get from exchanging letters with a Londoner like yourself. I know that you instructed in your first letter not to write back, but seeing as I don’t have any family of my own to write home to and fewer friends who aren’t already with me here in Afghanistan, I think you’ll forgive me for disobeying you.**

**You may notice that this letter begins nearly identical to another you may have received lately. That letter came from my dear American friend Olivia Rosanov, who was the fortunate recipient of the other of two letters you were “forced” to write. If you chose to continue writing letters to an isolated base in Afghanistan, then you can expect to hear more of our joint misadventures. Liv is, by now, someone I would consider my best friend. We were both alarmed and thrilled to receive any kind of post from my home. I, like you are now, am a Londoner.**

**My name is Johanna Watson, but I go by John. These days, I call Afghanistan my home. I miss the weather in London, I miss the rain and the snow. Is it a wet summer there? I was hoping it might be, because it’s so bloody dry and HOT here in our small corner of the world.**

**I grew up in Roehampton, as luck would have it, and I can promise that, despite your initial feelings on the place, you are currently sitting in one of the best rehabilitation-facilities in London. The only one better is Castle Craig Hospital in Scotland. I know this because my own sister is an addict herself, she has a long-standing affair with alcohol that spans back to our childhood. The family home remains empty, as there is no one living in it anymore, sadly, but I know where you are and I know you are safe.**

**You may not agree with me, you seem a rather confrontational sort, but as I’m certain Liv informed you, there is very little you could do to alarm either of us and I would caution against trying to push us away. We will be glad to give you space if you need it, but we aren’t going to go away by magic just because you can’t understand human kindness. You need a friendly ear as much as we both do, so please, Sherlock, please write to us again.**

**Yours Hopefully,**

**John H. Watson**

**Captain (RAMC)**

**Camp Bastion**

**Lashkar Gah/Gereshk**

**Nahri Saraj District**

**Helmand Province**

**Afghanistan**

-&-

 

Having been forced into writing two letters when he absolutely knew there were far better things to be doing with his time, like ignoring everyone else at the rehabilitation centre until he needed them for something, Sherlock Holmes was legitimately surprised to receive not one but two letters back from Afghanistan. That seemed to be where his letters had gone. How interesting. He had honestly expected his letters to get lost in transit or to be ignored. But when he was disturbed during a visit to his Mind Palace by a very rude male nurse, he thought that it had better be worth the interruption.

“Oi! Freak, wake up!” The nurse banged on the door with his night-stick, “You got something in the post!” Something smacked against his chest and Sherlock cracked an eye open. He knew without asking or looking that his letters had already been opened to look for drugs or other illicit substances. Sherlock picked up the letters and looked at them, squinting at the handwriting.

“Guess you’ve got some friends after all!”

“I don’t have friends.” Sherlock got up from his narrow bed and pushed the nurse out of his room, carefully blocking the door. “Go away.” As soon as he was alone, he opened the letters. One was from an American named Olivia Rozanov (American with Russian heritage), the other from a fellow Brit named…John Watson. Both were female, but John had selected a very masculine name for herself, and Sherlock was intrigued. The pair of unlikely friends had received Sherlock’s letters and had dutifully written back to him. Without copying each other word-for-word, excepting for the opening paragraph of the letter, both soldiers said essentially the same thing. They understood Sherlock’s dilemma and wanted him to know that despite what others might say, despite what he told himself, there were two people in this mad, mad world who wanted to be his friend and know him better. Watson’s letter was fairly standard, but Rozanov had a story to tell that she didn’t share all at once. There was something that had driven her to leave Manhattan, something drastic and violent and sad. She said that she had left Manhattan in 2002, after several years as a Reservist, but not why. Sherlock wanted to know why. She said she didn’t have family to write home to and most of her friends were already in Afghanistan. Why didn’t she have family? Curiosity drove him to find a biro and blank paper and start a letter in reply to Rozanov at least.

 -&-

**Camp Bastion**

**Lashkar Gah/Gereshk**

**Nahri Saraj District**

**Helmand Province**

**Afghanistan**

**12 June, 2006**

**Dear Soldier,**

**I was a bit alarmed to receive not one but TWO letters in reply to something I wanted nothing to do with at all in the beginning. And honestly, I still don’t. However, you have an intriguing story to tell. I was wondering how I could convince you best to share, if you would like to. You said you were a fire fighter and an Emergency Medical Technician in Manhattan prior to 2002.**

**I would like to know what drove you to turn your back on that profession. Someone like you wouldn’t simply walk away from something you had spent years training for. I assume you have a standard university-level education, in what specialization I can’t begin to imagine, something useful to your current employment with the Army. You say you are with the USAMEDCOM, so you are clearly employed in some medical capacity, but if you were an EMT first, you may not have much formal doctoral training.**

**You were tactful in your questioning, and as you and Captain Watson have both sworn in your letters, I am tempted to test your statement that I cannot surprise you. I will endeavour not to do so, but if you require some form of reassurance that I haven’t tried to kill myself off recently, then I shall be honest. I was admitted here three months ago by my brother after he discovered me suffering a nearly-fatal overdose of cocaine. The letters I sent to Afghanistan, not knowing that is where they would end up, were the first contact I have had with ANYONE in three months. I have not spoken to anyone besides staff and, when I can’t stand him any longer, my brother. Pray you never encounter my brother. Mycroft Holmes is his name, and there is nothing he does not know. That is both annoying and useful.**

**I anticipate being here another three months, or as long as it takes for my brother to be satisfied. I crave the freedom to do what I like, never mind my addictions. I’m BORED, Sergeant Rozanov. Desperately bored. This awful place, as good as it may or may not be, is terrible for a mind like mine. I cannot ask for help, who would listen or understand?**

**If gender identity and sexuality is really THAT important, I am somewhere between Asexual and Bisexual and subscribe to male pronouns. I am not interested in sexual relationships with anyone, I have better things to do with my time and no one seems interested in me that way. Or if they are, they only want to use me. I am a human being, not an object to be used, abused, and discarded like a broken toy.**

**I apologize for my behaviour, you did not write to me just for me to return with a page full of complaints. You have far better things to do with your time.**

**Regretfully,**

**Sherlock Holmes**

**Resident**

**The Priory Hospital Roehampton**

**Priory Lane**

**Roehampton**

**London**

**SW15 5JJ**

-&-

After writing a letter to Rozanov, whether she got it or not was another matter, Sherlock felt a little better. Making sure the two letters he had already received were safe, he went to make sure the one he was sending out would go out with the next post. He arrived at the desk right as the post-man was picking up the outgoing post and he hesitated. But no, he wanted this out as soon as possible. He handed it to the nurse, who passed it through the small scanner to make sure he wasn’t sneaking anything out, and watched as she handed it over to the postman, who got one look at the address and raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, that’s a long ways from here, yeah? You’re on one of those pen-mate programs or something?”

“Several of our residents recently took part in a letter-exchange program, it’s been irregular to receive any back from wherever they ended up. This one got two letters back. Can you imagine that?”

“Can’t I have friends?” He muttered. He didn’t have friends, he didn’t care about things like emotions, but…something about Rozanov and Watson had him itchy. It was awful. Going back to his room, he looked at a calendar he had gotten from…somewhere, and then looked at a map of the world. He wasn’t allowed anything sharp in his room, which was practical but very annoying. He wanted to mark off London and Lashkar Gah and Gereshk, he wanted to know how far away they were from each other. He wasn’t on any alerts at the moment, so…if he wanted to stretch a piece of string between London and Lashkar Gah, then he should be able to do it. He just needed access to the craft supplies. He needed a needle, string, and tape. Carefully taking the map down, it had been put up with pieces of cello-tape, he rolled the map and grabbed his notebook. Going out of his room, Sherlock went to the craft room. Some of the residents were doing different projects, and he hesitated in the doorway. The staffer in charge of overseeing the residents just smiled at him and waved him into the room.

“Come join us, Mr Holmes! What brings you out of your cave?”

“I…need to mark my map.”

“Oh, well join us!” The woman smiled and he found a quiet, empty table. Picking up what he needed, he also picked up a ruler and an architect’s compass. It was bulky and made of plastic, but it would have to do. Settling at his place, he tied a knot in a piece of string after he poked a hole in England, threading it through the back-side of the map and stretching it across to Afghanistan. The next time they went to the library, he would print out maps of England and Afghanistan to add to his map, making sure to mark their cities on each one. Using the map’s legend and the compass, he was able to calculate the distance from England to Afghanistan, and then calculate the time it would take for a letter to get there and another to return barring any delays at either end. About a week and a half either direction, perhaps a bit more than that if something came up. So that meant he had to wait approximately three weeks to get anything back. Could he wait that long? Yes, he could. He would keep himself acceptably busy and out of trouble. Somehow.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life as it happens. Olivia and John get a visit from Mycroft Holmes. It does not go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some time-jumping done, years and events glossed over. I apologize for nothing, the interesting things happen "post-canon" for the most part, anyway.  
> ::  
> ["dialogue inside these brackets is Farsi"]  
> {"dialogue inside these brackets is Russian"}

* * *

After the first letters were sent, John and Olivia exchanged letters on a regular basis with Sherlock Holmes, or as regularly as they could with their jobs. It was four months before they decided to exchange pictures, and sent him a picture someone had taken of the two of them together. In the picture, Olivia was holding John bridal-style after the soldier taking the picture had told their group to be goofy. Olivia had known John would jump, and was ready to catch her, and it was clear that they were having a good time. John, the goofball that she was, had been caught blowing the camera a kiss. In a picture they didn’t send to anyone but kept to themselves, taken right after, John was caught on camera laying another kiss on Olivia’s cheek. There were a lot of pictures like that, the two of them being cute and intimate in an almost-indecent fashion. By now, they had been friends for almost three years. Well, more than friends but they couldn’t say anything or do anything about it.

 

In return, they received a picture from London of a rather handsome, if unusual young man. Sherlock Holmes was twenty-six years old, taller than either of them by a good six inches or so at six-foot-even, with pale skin that looked almost sallow, far too skinny for anyone’s good, and the most unusual facial structure either of them had ever seen. He had rather prominent cheekbones, unusual, slightly almond-shaped eyes, and perfect cupids-bow lips. In the picture he had sent them, he wore a pair of tailored denims, heavy-soled boots that looked suspiciously like their desert boots, a black button-down dress-shirt, and a gray waistcoat. In the months since they had first made contact, John had pulled a few strings back in London to make things a little easier for Sherlock while he was in rehab and a friend of hers had taken Sherlock’s case for them. As a result, and by agreement with several caveats, Sherlock’s behavior had gotten much better and there was hope he would be home before Christmas.

 

Life took on a routine for John, Sherlock, and Olivia. They exchanged bi-weekly letters regularly, sending little gifts when they saw something interesting, sharing news and tidbits of trivia. This went on for years, from 2006 to 2015, barring a window of silence from 2011 to 2013 when Sherlock disappeared. Public forums screamed about the suicide of the genius detective, but John and Olivia suspected there was more to it. They never said anything, never let on, but when they ended up taking out two enemy operatives on their own time, they knew it was bigger than people thought. No one ever knew that it was the two of them responsible for the deaths of Rosamund Vincent and Sebastian Moran, not even Sherlock’s all-knowing brother Mycroft.

-&-

It was quiet until September 2015, when things went south a bit. Olivia had been out on patrol-duty with her Marines, which she did so rarely because John had pretty much commandeered her as an assistant, and she was relieved to get back to base alive. Her group had come under hostile fire and it had taken two hours to get clear. So she was already in a pretty bad mood when she showed up at the hospital with the jeeps carrying wounded. She came in by chopper with two of the worst.

“Sergeant Major Rozanov, Colonel Watson has asked for you, ma’am! She’s in her office!” The private directing personnel shouted in her ear over the roar of the chopper. Olivia groaned and hoped to God this would be quick. Nodding, she took off towards the hospital at a run. John generally had an open-door policy, so when she arrived to find the door closed, she knew something was up. Knowing she looked a bit of a fright, she tucked her helmet under her arm and knocked briskly on the door after running a hand over her hair.

“Come in!” John barked from the other side. Something was definitely wrong, she hadn’t heard that tone of voice from her girlfriend in…a long time. She carefully opened the door and stepped into the office.

“They said you asked for me, Colonel?”

“Oh, thank Christ it’s you! Come in, Rozanov.” John was standing behind her desk, shoulders stiff and spine ramrod-straight. If Olivia had to name the expression on her face, it was furious. She closed the door and looked around for clues. There was a big one standing on this side of the desk, she marked him government right away. There was an air about him that set her teeth on edge, a haughtiness to his posture and behavior. From the style of his hair to the bespoke three-piece suit in some dark, expensive material, to the carefully-furled umbrella he twirled in one hand, never mind the expression on his face, there was a lot about him she didn’t like. She gave him the same silent treatment he gave her, and the same scrutiny. Stepping around him, offering a proper, spare salute in passing, she set her helmet on the desk and stood beside John, who was practically trembling. She reached out and put her hand on the surface of the desk, knowing better than to try touching.

[“What’s up?”] She asked in Farsi.

[“We have…company.”] John replied tightly, indicating their guest. Olivia turned and looked at him again. There was something about him that was familiar to her, but she couldn’t think of any occasion she might have had to meet this man before or speak to him. What was it about him?

“Colonel Watson, Sergeant Major Rozanov, my business here is brief and I will get straight to the point.” Oh, he was one of John’s, then. That accent told her a bit about him. Olivia narrowed her eyes and felt a slide of something cold down her spine. Sherlock. He was here about Sherlock Holmes.

“What happened to Sherlock Holmes?”

“Pardon?” He blinked, a bit thrown off by her question. She stood beside John, hands folded against the small of her back as she squared off against someone who could probably have her kicked out for what she was about to do.

“You’re here about Sherlock Holmes. It’s obvious something’s happened to him. And since _you’re_ here in Colonel Watson’s office looking at two soldiers like we’re not worth scraping off the bottom of your shoes, it’s obviously something you blame on _us_.” She leaned her head back a bit, fixing him with a look that had often sent lesser men on the run. She’d scared a couple of reticent superiors with it, she wasn’t afraid to stand up for herself.

“I can’t begin to imagine what we may or may _not_ have done to earn your disdain, sir. But I’m not about to stand here and be shredded by a posh British political lackey who thinks I screwed up his brother’s life when he couldn’t be arsed to treat him like a human being in the _first place_.”

“You assume much, Rozanov.” The man sniffed, twirling his umbrella, “However, who am I to blame for my brother nearly _killing_ himself two days ago?”

“What?” Olivia looked at John, wondering if their expressions were identical.

“Two days ago, my brother was discovered unresponsive in his room at The Priory Hospital where he is a patient.” He glared at them with his best mean look, “He had taken enough illicit drugs to kill a horse and will be hospitalized for several days before he is released back to the rehabilitation centre.”

“What makes you think either of _us_ had anything to do with it?”

“A letter from Captain Watson was in his hand when he was discovered.”

“Why _wouldn’t_ it be? We’ve been exchanging letters for nine years by now! It’s not like either of us sent the drugs _to_ him!” John snapped, “Did it ever occur to you, Mr Holmes, that your brother has _resources_ in London and getting word to them would be rather simple? If he wants to get his hands on drugs, he sure as _hell_ isn’t going to need a pair of soldiers halfway around the world from London to get them! And if you think for one _second_ that either of us condones this behaviour, you could not be more mistaken.”

“John, stop. Stop.” Olivia put one hand on John’s shoulder, “Don’t do that.”

“Hmm. Fast to the temper, are we, Colonel Watson?”

“Oh, you can just stuff a sock in it, Mr. Holmes! You’re no fucking saint yourself! I was a medic for years in Manhattan, I saved the lives of people like your brother, and sometimes I was all they _had_! So don’t you get all holier-than-thou with us! Your brother _hates_ being in that place, we had to pull a favor to get a doctor who would care enough to listen to _his_ needs and not _yours_. I hate dealing with family members like you, it’s never about the patient, it’s always about _you_. About the bottom-line, the inconvenience to you, the _shame_ of having a family member you just can’t control.” Olivia snapped, “Sherlock is a unique person, one of the only friends I have, and if he fell off the wagon, you can be damn sure I’m not the one who pushed him off! I’ll pull him back onto it and get him stable again if I have to. I will march out of this hospital and fly to London on my own dime to take care of your brother. He needs compassion and a direction for his mind, not…whatever it is you’ve been getting away with for Christ _knows_ how long!” She looked at John.

“I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“To make a phone-call.” She stepped around the desk, collected her helmet, and passed by Mycroft Holmes, stopping by him and leaning into his personal space. “You listen to me, you sick bastard, you do _not_ treat anyone the way I’ve heard you treat your brother. It may be hooey, he may be lying to me, but I’ve learned that those who are told it’s in their heads, they don’t know what they’re talking about, are the ones who know the best what’s really going on. You might have your connections, sir, but I have _mine_.” Leaving the office, she slammed the door behind her and stormed out of the hospital. By the time she got to the comm-center, word had gotten around that Watson had a guest and he wasn’t really welcome. When she took over a comm-station, no one got in her way, they knew better. Sitting down, she set her helmet on the desk and shoved the headset into place. She placed a Skype-call to a contact she hadn’t bothered to touch base with in…years, probably. Longer than she should have, to be honest. But she and Watson were going to need higher-up help, and this was the best she could do against the likes of Mycroft Holmes.

{ _“You have reached the London office of Ivan Lazareva, this is Natasha. How may I direct your call this evening?”}_ The voice that answered was familiar and Olivia let out the breath she’d been holding.

{“Yes, I need to speak to Ambassador Lazareva if he’s available. It’s rather urgent.”} She hoped to _God_ her uncle was still in his office. She checked her watch. It was almost nine pm in Afghanistan, which meant it was eight-thirty pm in Moscow and five-thirty pm in London. She knew he was on a state visit trip to London, thanks to the media, and hoped to Christ she’d be able to talk to him.

 _{“I’m sorry, the Ambassador is currently busy. Who is asking?”}_ Natasha was doing her job. Olivia groaned and rubbed her forehead.

{“If he’s not in a meeting, can you tell him it’s Olivia Rozanov? It’s _very_ very important that I speak to him if he’s able to step away.”} She drummed her fingers on the desk, praying to a God she wasn’t sure was listening.

 _{“Oh. Is this Liv?”}_ Ah, there it was. Natasha’s voice had lightened up a little bit, as it usually did when she realized it was really just Olivia on the other end. Olivia heaved a sigh of…something.

{“Hi, Natasha. Yeah, sorry about this. Is he available?”}

 _{“Liv, sweetie, we haven’t heard from you in years!”}_ No longer in her “professional” mode, Natasha was gearing up for a talking-to Olivia was kind of sorry she didn’t have time for right now, _{“Years, child, you reckless thing! Are you okay? Where are you?”}_

{“I’m fine, I’m fine, Natasha. Still in Afghanistan. Listen, it’s _really_ important. I think Uncle Vanya might have gotten dumped for a last-minute trip to Kandahar. And I think I know why. Can I talk to him really quick?”}

 _{“Of course you can! He’ll be thrilled to hear from you!”}_ Natasha said brightly, _{“Just a minute, I’ll transfer you!”}_

{“Thanks, Natasha, you’re an angel.”} She sighed and put her head down for a minute. There was a short silence while Natasha ensured her uncle’s availability and transferred the call. She raised her head as the line clicked over.

_“Well, it’s not every day my assistant comes charging into my London office to tell me my estranged niece is calling from Gereshk.”_

“Uncle Vanya!” She shoved up on her elbows, recognizing the voice like she’d only heard it yesterday, “Hi!”

_“So, to what misfortune do I owe the pleasure of hearing your voice again for the first time in six years, my love?”_

“Oh, it’s trouble alright, Uncle Vanya. You weren’t, by _any_ chance, abandoned by Mycroft Holmes, were you? Maybe earlier this morning?”

_“I might have been informed of a family emergency two days ago that necessitated, for reasons he refused to explain, a trip to Afghanistan. Of all gods-forsaken places! What is he doing out there?”_

“He’s here for me, actually.” She closed her eyes, “I didn’t do a damn thing, Uncle, I promise, I promise. But his brother is in the hospital and he’s blaming me for it.”

 _“Why on earth would he blame_ you _?”_

“That’s a very good question.” Olivia sighed, “We’ve been talking by letters for nine years or so, and you know what I used to do in Manhattan.”

_“Save people’s lives. You were a hero.”_

“Well, I told Sherlock Holmes that I was used to handling people with his precise issues and it was no big deal for me to be friends with a recovering addict. At some point, he got hold of something strong enough to knock a horse over and almost killed himself.” She rubbed her fingertips together, “Because I said I was okay with addicts, his brother got it into his head that I condone addiction and somehow _sent_ Sherlock the drugs! Which is not only logistically impossible, but…”

 _“You wouldn’t support a habit regardless.”_ Her uncle was very understanding, _“I can see how this might be a problem for you. Have you confronted him about this?”_

“You know me, Uncle Vanya. Can’t keep my fucking mouth shut.” She chuckled, “So, yeah, I might be in just a _bit_ of trouble tomorrow. If I’m lucky, they won’t kick me out.”

_“What can I do for you from London, then?”_

“Maybe just casually mention that the sharp-tongued Command Sergeant Major who gave Mycroft Holmes a piece of her mind in John Watson’s office happens to be your niece. I get the feeling he has a bit more respect for _you_ than most people.”

_“I would be happy to mention that link. And your friend Watson?”_

“She may need a boost later.”

 _“Happy to, my dear. You should come visit next you have some time. Come see me in Moscow, I would be happy to have you and your handsome Colonel.”_ She could just see the smile on her uncle’s face and heaved a sigh of relief.

“If you get me out of this mess, Uncle Vanya, I’ll spend Christmas with you!”

_“Oh, no, you don’t. There are other, better plans for your Christmas! I will see you after the New Year, though!”_

“Oh, absolutely! Of course, I’d love that!” She couldn’t imagine what she might be doing for Christmas. If Sherlock Holmes was still in rehab, she had no intention of going anywhere. Well, she might go out to London to _visit_ him, bring a bit of excitement to his existence.

-&-

After another couple of minutes with her uncle, she hung up the call and returned to the hospital. There was no sign of Holmes or John, she found John hunkered down in her tent. Clearly, the conversation hadn’t gone very well, and she had heard from some of their higher-ups already.

“Hey. You good?”

“I hate him.”

“That’s two of us, lovey. What’d he say?”

“I shouldn’t give Sherlock any ideas.”

“Oh, you’re kidding me.” Olivia sat next to her, “Well, we’ve got some help of our own. Turns out Mr. Holmes abandoned a meeting with the Russian Ambassador to come out here and yell at us. He’s not that happy about it, either.”

“How do you know that?” John looked at her, “And what would any of that have to do with us?”

“Everything.” She smiled and leaned over to kiss John on the cheek, “Ivan Lazareva is my uncle.”

“He’s your… _what_?” John blinked, “You’re related to the Russian Ambassador!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god! That’s amazing!”

“And he’s promised to make it very clear that he doesn’t approve of what Mycroft has done here.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“We’ll worry about that closer to Christmas. I get the feeling you and I are going home to London.”

“Ugh. Do you really _want_ to?”

“If we can make the Hols a little brighter for Sherlock Holmes, I’ll do whatever it takes.” Olivia smiled and they talked about plans for Christmas Leave, which was still several months away. Three, to be exact.

-&- 

Olivia didn’t have to wait very long for her turn to come up, and when her commanders asked her what the hell she thought she was doing talking back to someone like Mycroft Holmes, she pointed out that she wasn’t technically under his jurisdiction and she wasn’t going to sit there and let him accuse her of something she hadn’t done. It wasn’t like she’d flown to London, kidnapped Sherlock Holmes, tied him to a chair, and force-fed him the drugs. Apparently, John had said nearly the same thing and to punish them for speaking out of turn to a government agent, she and John were assigned to a shift-schedule that made her sick looking at it. Basically, any shift that needed filling, they were up for grabs. And nothing was sacred. If it needed doing, they did it. Well, it was better than getting kicked out, so there was that. Wishing many ills on Sherlock’s idiot brother, John and Olivia got what precious little sleep they could that night and the next morning, they rolled up their sleeves, squared their shoulders, and headed in to serve their punishment.

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas comes to Baker Street, and with it a miracle.

* * *

After ending up in the hospital following an overdose, Sherlock Holmes was feeling a little better but still not great. When he’d found out what his brother had done to John Watson and Olivia Rozanov, he had cried and yelled and gotten locked up in solitary for a couple of days. That had been in September, it was December now and Sherlock hadn’t seen or heard from Mycroft since attacking his brother for trying to blame the overdose on John and Olivia. They had nothing to do with the overdose, and it hurt Sherlock that his brother had blamed his only friends for it.

 

This close to Christmas, all Sherlock wanted was to be with people who cared about him. He had sent Christmas cards, silly generic cards he’d found at a corner-store, to his soldiers at the first of the month, hoping they would arrive in time for Christmas. He had considered sending a care-package, but hadn’t done that. He just wanted them to know that, even if it wasn’t true for him, that they had someone back home who was thinking about them during the Holidays. From a letter sent in November, the girls had Holiday Leave lined up for the week before Christmas and the week after. But they hadn’t made any plans and would likely be in Afghanistan covering for those who did have families to be with. It was something they had done before and would be glad to do again. Maybe he would call them on Christmas Eve and wish them a Merry Christmas in person?

-&-

Two days before Christmas, Sherlock had an appointment with Mike Stamford, who was a friend of John’s. He had been on his best behavior since September, had stayed clean, hadn’t even _thought_ about drugs since that last overdose, pretty much keeping to himself. What he really wanted, almost as much as he wanted to see John and Olivia, was to go home. He missed Baker Street, so much more than he should have.

“Sherlock?” He realized that Doctor Stamford had been talking to him and he’d been ignoring the man. He blinked up at the man and sniffled.

“I’m sorry?”

“You haven’t even been paying attention to me, have you?”

“I’m very sorry, Doctor Stamford. I was…distracted.” He rubbed the creased edges of the photograph in his lap, “Did you say something?”

“Yes, I did. I said you’re going _home_.”

“I’m…what?”

“You heard me.” Stamford smiled at him, “I’m sending you home for Christmas. And I don’t want to see you back at this hospital ever again, alright?”

“Wait, I can go home? To…Baker Street?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Really. And you don’t have to come back here ever again. You’ve been clean for three months, and before the mess that landed you in here back in April, for eight years.” Stamford smiled, “How’s that for a Christmas present?”

“Thank you, Doctor Stamford.”

“So, what’s got you so bloody distracted?”

“It’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing, son.” Stamford nodded at the picture in his hands, “That’s John and Liv, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was a picture that had been taken at a holiday party back in Afghanistan and sent to him over email, and it was probably one of his favorite pictures of the girls. John had both arms around Olivia, one wore a Santa hat and the other a pair of reindeer antlers, and John was kissing Olivia. It was amazing to think he’d known the girls since 2006 and had never actually met them. He had spoken to them by handwritten letters, email, phone-calls, and later Skype video, but they had never actually met in person. Those early days of their friendship were ancient history, but he had never known two better people. He had always told them that if they were ever in London and needed a place to stay, they could come stay with him in Baker Street. It was the same offer he’d made in his last email. If they happened to get out of Afghanistan, he would love the chance to finally meet them properly.

“Go home, Sherlock. You’ve earned it.” Stamford stood up from his desk, held out one hand, “Start your life over, God knows you could use a reset-button.”

“I need a lot more than a reset-button, but that would be a start.” He sighed and shoved to his feet, “Thanks for everything, Stamford.”

“Don’t thank me, mate, thank John Watson. She’s the one who got me assigned to your case.”

“Yeah, she did.” Sherlock looked at the picture again and smiled, “I think one or both of them were up for retirement soon.”

“Considering how long they’ve been in the service? Yeah, I can believe that. What did Rozanov clock out at last?”

“Command Sergeant Major.”

“Oh, good for _her_!”

“And John’s a Colonel now.”

“Those two sure climbed the ladders, didn’t they?” Stamford chuckled, “Good for you, Sherlock. Good luck.”

“Thanks. Happy Christmas.”

“You too, see you on the outside.” Stamford shook hands with him and saw him out of the office. Sherlock pocketed the picture and went back to his small room. It didn’t take long to pack up his meagre belongings. Stamford and a nurse came and got him, and helped him with out-processing. It wasn’t until he was in a taxi and on his way back to Baker Street that he remembered how to breathe. As he looked at the picture of the girls at the party, he decided to call them. Even if they didn’t answer, it would make him feel better about things. When he got John’s voicemail, he sighed and left a message.

“Hi, John, Olivia. It’s Sherlock Holmes. Listen, I know you’re both probably really busy right now, and that’s fine. I just…I wanted to call and wish you a Happy Christmas. I hope you’re both well and happy. I wish you were…here. I wish you were here and I wasn’t…alone. I’m sorry, I miss you. I miss you both. It’s Christmas, and you’re my family, I wish you could be home. I’ve never seen you, and I wish I could have one thing for Christmas. Maybe in the New Year?” He looked out the window. “Please come home, leave Afghanistan and come home to London. Keep a crazy old detective company. It’s snowing here, it’s beautiful. I wish you could see it. I’ll leave this and hopefully see you…soon? Take care of yourselves. Merry Christmas, John and Olivia.” Hanging up, he pocketed his phone. 

 

When he got to Baker Street, he paid the fare and unlocked the door. As soon as he stepped into the house, he noticed a few things. It was warm, and it smelled like…cinnamon and cloves and oranges. It smelled like Christmas. He heard soft music as well. Where was it coming from?

“Mrs Hudson?” He called warily, but 221A was empty. Mrs Hudson _was_ home, just…out for the moment. From upstairs, he heard music and…giggling. What on earth? Alert for trouble, he climbed the stairs. As he reached the landing, the flat-door flew open, banging against the wall.

“Sherlock!” Standing in the doorway, clad in dusty fatigues that looked like they’d been worn for a couple of days, was Olivia Rozanov.

“Olivia?”

“Well, come upstairs, you idiot! It’s freezing outside! Snowing, yes! Come inside, it’s warmer in here!” She disappeared into the flat, “Come _on_ , silly thing!”

“What…did I miss something?”

“You always say it’s something!”

“Oh, wow.” He stepped into the flat which had been repaired over the months he’d been in rehab, it looked almost the same. But there was a Christmas tree in one corner, adorned with fairy-lights and ornaments, tinsel and lights were strung along shelves and the mantle in strategic places, and the whole place smelled like fir, cinnamon, and…peppermint. Cinnamon, cloves, oranges. It smelled so much like Christmas.

“Whoa, wait! No, no, no!” Olivia appeared from the kitchen and grabbed his bags, tossing them aside, “Nope, you don’t get to come in until you pay the toll!”

“The…what?”

“Look up!” She pointed at the top of the door-frame, where someone had cleverly hung a sprig of mistletoe.

“Oh, mistletoe.”

“Come on, you know what it’s for. Mr. Genius Detective.”

“Be nice to the poor man, Liv, we kind of broke into his house!” If that wasn’t John Watson, he would eat his scarf.

“John!”

“Come on, one kiss and you can go say hi.” Olivia held out both hands, “This _is_ happening, Sherlock. I promise.” He took her hands, which were both rough _and_ soft, and she pulled him closer until they were about a breath apart. The light-headedness and elevated heart-rate were so similar to a drug-high, but so _very_ , very different. Sherlock freed one hand and touched her face, the laugh-lines, the worry-lines, every wrinkle, blemish, and scar. He knew the story of almost every visible mark. But he’d never been able to touch them, map them out himself, and God knew he’d wanted to.

“Come on, you’re allowed to.” She said softly, rocking forward on her toes. She was nearly six inches shorter, and yet…she fit. Sherlock had a bit of experience with kissing, but never with the people he had wanted to kiss the most. His hand slid around to cradle the back of her neck, and she smiled as she leaned up. He leaned down, his arm tightening around her waist, and touched his lips to hers, testing the waters. One touch wasn’t enough and he pulled back, shaking his head. One skilled hand touched his jaw and he stilled, dropping his head again. This time, he kissed her properly, getting a proper taste. Olivia made a small sound in her throat and he felt her fingers tighten against the fabric of his coat. Finally, he had to breathe, and Sherlock let her go. He didn’t want to, and didn’t, just enough to get some room between them to breathe. It was the first time he had ever seen Olivia in person, the first time he’d ever had a chance to kiss her, but it didn’t feel awkward. It felt…right.

“Wow.” She giggled, “Who taught _you_ how to kiss?”

“Lestrade.”

“Remind me to thank him!” She wore a dopey grin, “Holy shit.”

“That’s a proper knock-out kiss that is, Mr. Holmes!” John was all but laughing outright, “Are you done ravishing my partner, then?”

“Not by a _long_ shot.” He murmured, unable to help himself or care how it sounded.

“Well, give the poor woman a chance to catch her breath and come here, you handsome bastard.” And when John Watson said “come here”, you did just that. Pulling away from Olivia, Sherlock went to say hello to John. He remembered when John’s hair had been a beautiful sun-bleached blonde, now it was almost completely grey. It was beautiful, it was perfect. _She_ was beautiful, perfect.

“Hello, John.”

“Sherlock Holmes. Merry Christmas, you idiot.”

“Is it Christmas?”

“It certainly is. Come on, now, you can’t just kiss _one_ of us, that ain’t fair.”

“Oh, pushy thing, aren’t you?” He snickered, “Was that an order, Colonel?”

“Does it _have_ to be?”

“Maybe.” He winked, knowing it wasn’t the smartest thing in the world to pick on the likes of John Watson. She raised an eyebrow, looked him over, flicked a glance at the cross-beam of the door to the kitchen, and grinned. There was more mistletoe there.

“Well, then. Kiss me, Mr Holmes. That’s an order.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sherlock followed orders. Some part of his brain still wasn’t firing quite right and was absolutely convinced that this was all a dream. He was pretty sure it was real, but he didn’t blame his brain for thinking that. Sherlock surfaced from a fantastic kiss, aware of the warm body at his back. Olivia peeled him out of his coat and went to hang it up. John occupied herself with the buttons of his shirt, humming as she pulled and tugged, leading the way through the kitchen. Olivia was right behind them, one finger hooked through the belt-loops of his trousers. When they got to the bedroom, he kicked the door shut and heard Olivia set the lock. No one would be bothering them anytime soon. Good riddance if they tried.

 

It took less time to get Sherlock out of his clothes than it took the girls, but efficiency was key and a pile of tangled fabric soon sat on the floor. He didn’t spend as much time completely nude as he had before 2011, still very self-conscious of the scars on his back, but he couldn’t hide them from Olivia and John, who knew everything about him and had been there for him when he resurfaced in 2013. Olivia was behind him, giving the visible scars a bit of love. John contented herself with taking care of the front of him, blunt, skilled fingers tracing the evidence of his last fall from grace.

“This was done _to_ you, you didn’t do it to yourself.” John murmured, pressing her thumb to a faded track-scar.

“The first time.” Sherlock swallowed something heavy in his throat. How did he deserve these two amazing people?

“Friends protect each other. It’s part of the deal. It’s what we do.” Olivia murmured, pressing a kiss right between his shoulder-blades, “You’ll have a hard time getting rid of the two of us, Sherlock Holmes.”

“What if I want you to stay?”

“Then we’re not going anywhere.” John looked up at him, her eyes flashing, “And don’t you _dare_ think about going anywhere without us, you silly thing.”

“I need help, I need assistants, I need partners.” He hated asking for help, but it wasn’t so much that he needed help as he wanted someone to solve crimes _with_. And he wanted someone smart and with something to offer. Olivia and John were two of the smartest, most skilled people he could think of, and they were perfect candidates.

“Need help solving the crimes of London?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll take the job.” Olivia ducked under his arm and took his hand in hers, “That means we’ll all be living here, though, because like Hell are we going to live somewhere else in London and worry about finding you wherever you happen to be.” Sherlock chuckled at the look in her eyes and leaned her head back for another kiss. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Better for you to be right here when I need you for something.”

“We’ll see what your landlady thinks of two handsome girls moving into your flat.”

“She’ll love you both.” He sat down on the wide bed and got comfortable. “She’s seen your pictures enough to know exactly who you are when she finally gets eyes on you two.” Olivia chuckled and curled up along his left side, while John took over on the right. Nothing else would happen unless one of them asked for it, but this was enough. Sherlock fell asleep with Olivia’s head on his chest. It was hard to believe he was not only home, but he didn’t have to celebrate Christmas alone. The only thing that could possibly make this better was a good case. He hated the idea of another family suffering on Christmas, but if he could bring them justice, some closure for the loss of a loved one, that would be enough for him.

“You’re thinking too hard.” John murmured from his right, startling him out of his daze, “Go to sleep. Think later.”

“Sorry.” He murmured, squeezing the hand that rested on his abdomen. John chuckled and pulled up the duvet, resettling with her back to him. It didn’t take long to fall asleep after that.

-&-

Olivia Rozanov had no idea how long she and the other two had slept when a muffled, insistent pounding broke into her sleep. Someone was at the door. Groaning, she extracted herself from the pile of warm bodies and grabbed her clothes.

“What is it?” Sherlock rumbled, hoarse with sleep. She fastened her trousers and pulled the vest over her head, not caring that she wasn’t wearing a thing underneath.

“Someone’s at the door. I’ll handle it.”

“If it’s Mycroft, you know what to do with him.”

“Yep.” She ruffled her hair and left the bedroom. The knocking got louder and more insistent.

“Yeah, yeah, coming. Hang on.” She grumbled, thinking several unkind things about whoever it was that had come to bother them.

“Sherlock, open up! I know you’re home!” A voice yelled from the other side of the door, “Right now, or I’m coming in!”

“Lestrade?” Olivia fought the locks open. Pulling the door open, she peeked out at the harried Detective Inspector she had heard plenty about but never met properly. “Inspector Lestrade?”

“Jesus.” The way his eyes widened when he saw her and not Sherlock at the door was memorable, “Olivia Rozanov?”

“Hey. What’s up? Emergency or something?”

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“Sleeping. I can get him up for you, though. You need help?”

“Yeah. I really do.” Greg Lestrade looked like he’d run all the way to Baker Street from wherever he’d been. Olivia smiled and let him in.

“Wait here. I’ll get Sherlock.” She closed the door behind him and went back through the kitchen. Getting into the bedroom, she started collecting clothes. “Rise and shine, sleepies. Sounds like we’ve got a case on.”

“Did he say what it was?” Sherlock surfaced first, blinking.

“No, but it looks serious. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’d run here from wherever he was first.” That did the trick getting the other two out of bed. Taking turns in the bathroom, they got dressed properly and went to meet Lestrade in the sitting-room. He was pacing when they emerged, and when he realized that Olivia hadn’t crashed at Baker Street alone, he blinked.

“Jesus. _Both_ of you?”

“Don’t go anywhere one without the other, y’know.” Olivia shrugged, “You look a bit awful, what’s up?”

“Over in Whitechapel. Got a missing persons case.”

“Kidnapping?”

“Six-year-old girl went missing this morning on her way to school, but no one knew she was gone until later.” He laid out the details of the case and Sherlock paced a bit, Olivia could practically see the wheels turning.

“Sherlock?”

“What’s her name?”

“Anna Clark. She and her twin sister are gone.”

“We’ll find them.”

“Thank Christ. I knew I could count on you.” Lestrade’s shoulders sagged, “This was the last thing I wanted to be doing two days before Christmas, y’know?”

“That poor family.” Olivia murmured, trying to imagine how worried the parents were, and how frightened the girls had to be. Lestrade then laid out the rest of the details he had on the girls. They decided to go speak with the family and get a better grasp of the situation, so they took a cab down to Whitechapel behind Lestrade’s car. They ended up at a block on Mansell Street. While Sherlock paid the fare, Olivia looked up at the building.

“So this is where Anna and Felicity Clark live?” She looked up and down the street. Greg had given her a photo of the girls and she pulled it from her pocket, looking at it.

“Liv!”

“You two go on, I’ll do some canvassing.” She waved the others on. She could do some street-sounding, let Sherlock do his thing.

“Sherlock, can you…?”

“Yep.”

“Ta.” Lestrade patted Sherlock on the shoulder, “Be _nice_ to these people, alright?”

“Of course I will! Their children are missing!” He looked insulted that Lestrade didn’t trust him to be nice to the worried parents. Sherlock took John and went to speak to the Clarks, Olivia waited for Lestrade.

“Is he usually _not_ nice to clients?”

“Like Hell he’s nice. He’ll tear you to shreds on a single look and then send you on your way with a wave.” Lestrade sighed, “He’s been…different lately.”

“A couple of near-death experiences can change a man.” Olivia headed across the street after traffic had cleared. They stopped in at the Tesco Express first and asked if anyone there had seen the girls. No, but they would keep an eye out for them. Going back to the block, they started questioning the neighbors. A name kept coming up in their interviews: Roger Clark, Andrew Clark’s brother. Olivia wasn’t a detective, but even she knew that it was a big hint. After the third neighbor mentioned Roger Clark, Olivia pulled Lestrade aside.

“Look, that’s four people who’ve mentioned the same name, the same person. Whoever Roger Clark is, we need to find him.” She kept her voice down, “And we need to find him right now.”

“Right. Give me a mo.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number. While he called in the tip and got the process started for warrants, Olivia looked up Roger Clark. When she saw where he lived, she grabbed Greg by the wrist, startling him.

“What?”

“We need the River Police. Roger Clark lives in a houseboat in St Katherine Docks. If he’s not at his mooring, we need to search the water. He has the girls, I know he has those poor girls.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look!” She handed over her phone and he looked at the information she’d gotten on their new prime suspect. He groaned.

“Fucking hell. Thanks, Liv. Hey, Sally? Change of plans. We need a rush on those warrants and a couple of boats. We’re going to St Katherine Docks. Yeah. Yeah, thanks, luv. See you down there. Right. Thanks.” As he hung up, Sherlock and John emerged from the Clarks apartment. They had apparently come to the same conclusion, and they went back to The Met to wait. As soon as they had warrants, it was off to St Katharine Docks. So as not to raise suspicions if the Ons Verlangen was at her mooring, Sherlock talked Lestrade into letting him take Olivia and John to do a recon of the marina. A couple of plain-clothes officers would go with them. With radios and a pair of handcuffs, and three plain-clothes officers in tow, they searched the marina for Roger Clark’s Ons Verlangen.

 

Half an hour of searching and they found it. It didn’t look like anyone was aboard, but they all knew better. As they watched, Olivia saw movement in the wheel-house. Tapping Sherlock on the shoulder, she drew her side-arm and approached the boat. Sherlock called in the movement as she dropped into a crouch and crossed her fingers it wasn’t Roger Clark. As she stepped into view of the hatch, she let out the breath she’d been holding. It wasn’t Roger Clark. It was Felicity. Olivia looked around and held out one hand to the girl, keeping a tight grip on her pistol as she stepped carefully onto the boat.

“Are you Felicity?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“I’m with the police. We’re here to take you home. Where’s your sister?”

“Down there.” Felicity took her hand, “You’re going to save us?”

“Yes, I am. Where’s your uncle?”

“I don’t know. He told us to stay out of sight, not to make noise, he’d be back soon.”

“Where did he go?” Olivia holstered her gun after setting the safety and picked up Felicity. Turning, she handed the girl off to one of the plain-clothes officers, who wrapped her in a shock-blanket, and went back for Anna, who cried when she saw Olivia and knew they were safe. The girls were unharmed aside from a few scratches and bruises, and as she stepped off the houseboat, she heard a commotion and looked over her shoulder to see John take off at a run. Handing Anna over, she went to investigate and heard John yell back over her shoulder.

“Liv! Swing ‘round that way, cut ‘im off as he doubles back!” John was gone from sight, pursuing their suspect, and Olivia looked for the double-back route. Finding it, she took off, ignoring the shouts of the police. When she got eyes on Roger Clark, she jogged right to intercept. He turned to confront her, being larger he thought she would be an easy take-down. She was delighted to prove him wrong as she used his body against him and dumped him into the marina. She went in after him, and there was a brief tussle, he tried to drown her before deciding to make a break for it. A couple of River Police fished them out of the water and they were hauled from the marina, soaking wet and sputtering.

“You’re lucky we didn’t put a couple of holes in you, Mr. Clark. Here, you just get to go for a quick swim and then answer a couple of questions.” Getting up, she tugged on the blanket someone had dropped around her shoulders, “So consider yourself a lucky bastard you didn’t have the heart to hurt those precious little girls or your fate might have been a little different.”

“Oh, nice _work_ , Liv!” John chuckled as she gave Olivia a hand back onto the dock, “That was easy!”

“Relatively speaking.” Olivia watched the uniformed constables haul Clark away once he was on dry ground, “The girls?”

“Getting looked at by the ambulance crews. They’ll be alright.” John rubbed her hands together, “Well, _that_ was exciting.”

“We should go find Lestrade.” Sherlock looked at them, “Well done, girls.”

“Our pleasure, of course.” Olivia rolled her shoulders. They found Lestrade up by the ambulance, talking to the medics. As they watched, a car pulled up and deposited the Clarks, who ran to the ambulance and were reunited with their girls. Lestrade talked to them, explained how they’d found the girls and gotten them out. When they laid eyes on John, Olivia, and Sherlock, they broke down in tears again.

“Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Holmes! Thank you!”

“Don’t thank _me_ , Mr. Clark. Thank Sergeant Major Rozanov, she’s the one who found the girls and made certain your brother was apprehended.” Sherlock looked at Olivia, who was dripping water and felt a crackle that indicated she was starting to ice-up. The Clarks were quick to thank her, before going to take the girls home again. Olivia let Sherlock and John hustle her to the ambulance, where she was cleared and told to go home, take a hot shower, and find some dry clothes.

“That was a gutsy move for a Yank. Brave thing you did, he could have been armed.” The lead medic rubbed her down with a towel, shaking his head at the madness of it all.

“He _was_ armed, just never thought about using it against a couple of soldiers. Guess he might have known that was a stupid idea.” She shuddered, “Ugh.”

“You’re fine except for being wet, go on home and get dry.” The medic smiled, “Thanks for your help.”

“I wasn’t expecting to thwart a kidnapping when I got home this morning, but that’s fine with me.” She sniffled and took the offered towel, “Thanks.”

“Alright, we’re being kicked out of here.” John appeared and helped her out of the ambulance, “Come on, you, let’s go home.”

“Yep.” She hopped to the ground, “Before my clothes freeze.” John chuckled and kissed her on the cheek. Sherlock waited for them on St Katherine’s Way, holding the door of a taxi. It was a quiet drive from St Katherine’s Docks to Baker Street, and Sherlock got the door open for her.

“Go upstairs. Take a shower.”

“Ta.” She ran upstairs, found the bathroom, and dumped all of her clothes and gear in a wet heap in the hallway as she started the water in the bathtub-shower combo. The hot water felt fantastic and she lingered as long as she dared before getting out. John had left her dry clothes to wear, and she snickered as she pulled on the track-pants and long-sleeved shirt that were part of her PFU kit. Ruffling her hair, still slightly damp, she left the bathroom after hanging up her towels. Her clothes had been collected and taken away. She found John and Sherlock in the sitting-room, and poked her partner in the thigh.

“Budge over and make some room, you.”

“Feel better?”

“I’m _warm_ , if that counts.” She grabbed the blanket folded over the back of the couch and shook it out before wrapping up in it, “Bleh.”

“Silly idiot, no one _told_ you to jump into the marina.”

“Yeah, well, no one told me _not_ to. So there.” She sniffled. Sherlock chuckled as he handed her a cup of tea. “Oh, thanks. Bless you.”

“Here, unwrap for a mo.” John pulled on the blanket, “And off with that shirt.”

“Why?”

“Because you jumped into a filthy marina, and Christ alone knows what’s living in the Thames these days. The last thing I need is you getting sick from a quick swim.”

“I didn’t swallow any water, John.”

“Not on purpose.” Her partner poked her in the side, “Doesn’t mean it didn’t get in.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” John just smiled as she waved the prepped syringe at her, “Come on.”

“I hate you.” She huffed. Sherlock snorted and she looked at him as John made quick work of her jab, “Don’t you dare laugh, she’ll do the same thing to you next time you do something stupid. Thank God she’s fast about it, though. Ow!”

“Big baby.”

“You’re a menace, you know that?”

“So I hear.” John grinned and kissed her on the cheek, “All good now.”

“Bastard.”

“Your bastard, Rozanov.” John cooed, patting her on the shoulder as she went to stash the sharps with her kit. When she came back, Olivia sat on a cushion between her feet on the floor. John had a comb and a hair-tie and set to work on Olivia’s hair. Sherlock played the violin for them, at least until a knock on the door distracted them.

“Oh, that would be dinner. Be right back.” He glanced out the window and disappeared down the stairs. A minute later, he came back up carrying bags of take-away. It smelled like Indian, and Olivia knew her mouth was watering. John chuckled.

“Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Perfect. We ordered while you were in the shower.” John patted her on the cheek and hopped over her, using the coffee-table as an over-pass, disappearing into the kitchen to help Sherlock with the food. After some rummaging, rattling, and a few “ah-hah, that’s where it went!”s, they emerged with three plates and two bottles of beer. Olivia took one plate and a bottle, and settled on the couch while John and Sherlock bickered over what to watch. After listening for five minutes, she rolled her eyes, set her plate down, and got up.

“Where are _you_ going?”

“To get a movie that will shut you both up. Be right back.” She hopped the coffee-table and ran upstairs, digging through her things to find what she wanted. “Yep, there you are! Gotcha!” Clutching the DVD case, she went back downstairs. When she got back to the sitting-room, she was _not_ surprised to discover that John and Sherlock had done some shuffling and her partner was now sitting with her legs draped across Sherlock’s lap and her back against the armrest of the couch. Shaking her head, she popped her copy of The Day of The Doctor into the DVD player and let Sherlock shuffle through the proper menus. They debated their favorite Doctors and subsequent favorite Companions.

-&-

After the end-credits rolled, they consolidated left-overs, stashed them in the fridge, and tossed empty containers. Olivia did the dishes, wondering in the back of her head why a place she had never been before in her life felt so much like home, and why it wasn’t more awkward around Sherlock. Well, she wasn’t going to look too hard, she didn’t mind the way things were going.

 

Once the kitchen was clean, it was still fairly early, but John and Olivia had flown in from Kabul that morning and were still adjusting to London time. And Sherlock had just gotten home from seven months in rehab. They all needed a good night’s sleep. So, after taking care of their night-time routines, they went their separate ways, Sherlock to his bedroom, John and Olivia to the upstairs bedroom. It was quiet on Baker Street that night, a blessing they did not take for granted. 


End file.
